


I knew you in this dark

by havisham



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Edwardian Period, He'll never love again, Hospital, M/M, Melodrama, Tragedy, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courtaney bowed his head in mock-shame. “I must beg you to make me your exception.”</p>
<p>Thomas did not want to say, though it is true:<em> you already are.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	I knew you in this dark

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from Wilfred Owen’s seminal WWI poem, “Strange Meeting”.  
> 

_**One.  
**_  
Thomas knew he wasn’t a coward, no matter what anyone else might say. He’d been in this mess for two years, two years of ducking through furious barrages that had no respect for stretcher-bearers or red crosses, two years of trundling along dead and dying men to dubious destinations. Of holding their hands as they died, red and torn as from the jaws of a great beast, crying, often, for their mothers. Thomas’ hands, worn already from years of service – no could mistake him for gentleman – became chapped and red, and skin under his fingernails stained with blood. No matter how much he scrubbed, the blood seeped through. He was like that mad queen in that Scottish play he’d once seen — the one whose name was thought to be unlucky.

But Thomas now, he was lucky. He had been to war for two years, and hadn’t a scratch on him. But he knew his luck would run out. And it would run out soon. It had to, it was going to run out, and then he too would die in the mud. The thought of dying made him absolutely furious. His whole life, he had struggled not to become compliant and defeated. (Like his parents had been.) True, he never rebelled directly, but he had plans, you see, and ambitions. So what if he sometimes took more than what was allotted to him? Why shouldn’t he, when what was given to him was so very little by those who had so very much?

He still felt a the sharp stab of anger when he thinks about the abominable Mr. Bates.

The insufferable Mr. Bates, the _saintly_ Mr. Bates, who — Thomas was convinced, unshakably, positively, was not the perfect knight in shining armor that everyone seemed to think he was.

There was violence behind those dark eyes.

(They were so much like his own father’s.)

Dead of drink at age thirty was Thomas’ father, who was named Thomas Barrow as well. Everyone liked his father too, and all his troubles, they said were unfairly put upon him. Thomas’ father was said to have been a _decent_ man. _But there were no decent men_ , thought Thomas. And if not decent, he could at least be honest to _himself_ , if not to anyone else.

It came as a blow, when Matthew Crawley appeared in the trench, along with the knowledge that his past could never been totally discarded. Crawley was a lieutenant now, as so his superior still. Out of an almost forgotten sense of social duty, Thomas asked Lt. Crawley in for tea. And it was true what he said about his mother — she had never even dared to meet old Countess’ eyes for all the days she had worked at the house. The idea that her son could entertain the Crawley heir was unthinkable, and yet here they were.

Thomas had never had a chance to know the gentleman very well, but on closer examination, he had to conclude that the man was amazingly dense. There he sat, smiling and spouting out nonsense about how the war showed them what truly mattered. As if it equalized things between them somehow. _Equal, us? How so? I’m sure his lordship’s bedroll has got a better class of lice._

Crawley leaned forward, eager for a connection.

Thomas asked, “Do you miss Downton?”

And of course, he, Matthew Crawley, did. How could he not miss a place that valued him for his continued existence?

Thomas admitted that he missed the old place too, and that O’Brien kept him abreast of all the news. The odd thing was that he _did_ indeed miss Downton Abbey, as much as he could miss any place that never wanted _him_ , that had never cared about him at all. Yet, he did miss it. He wanted to go back. He wanted out.

As soon as Crawley left, the realization came heavy upon him. Thomas’ head sank down, as if he was in prayer. The answer was staring him in the face. He could not stay here. If he did, he would die. He could not die, it wasn’t fair.

If Thomas Barrow believed in anything, it was justice, justice for himself. To die in this foreign place, away from everything he knew, wasn’t just. And so he came to a decision.

He stared at his left hand as if he was seeing it for the first time. He bit his lip, and tasted blood on his tongue.

A sacrifice. He had to make a sacrifice.

He was no coward. No. It would be cowardice to accept his fate, to wait for himself to die. It would be cowardice to stay, cowardice to lay down and die.

He breathed out shakily and stood, and went out into the frosty night.

 

_**Two.  
**_  
Major Clarkson did not like him, that much was clear. Perhaps he remembered the rumors that had dogged Thomas even before the war, that the first footman of Downton Abbey had something indefinably wrong with him.

Possibly, he knew him to be a thief. No, he couldn’t have known. Surely, such honorable people like Carson and Bates would never stoop to spreading rumors...

_He just doesn’t like the cut of my jib_ , thought Thomas as he emptied the bedpans, and controlling his disgust as best as he could. Emptying bedpans and dealing with unfriendly majors — both were better than dying — anything was better dying, and so Thomas set his jaw and did what needed to be done.

He was not surprised to see Mrs. Crawley at the cottage hospital. It was, of course, her own special project, and she was there almost every day. The first day he had arrived, exhausted and still pained by his left hand, she had been kind to him. She had insisted he rest, and have his hand looked at.

She was a kind lady. She radiated a general sort of compassion, an indiscriminate kindliness. It had nothing to do with him at all. It wasn’t special, her kindness. She’d do the same for any man off the street.

But still, when she asked in a hushed tone about Matthew, Thomas was able to say that Lt. Crawley was well and as safe as he could be, he was admired by his men. ( Thomas did not know if that was true.) And well-liked by his superiors. (Which was probably true.)

Mrs. Crawley’s smile was a little fixed at this point, and Thomas wondered if he had said something wrong. Of course, he couldn’t be expected to know how Matthew Crawley _really_ was and how he was _truly_ coping. He had met him on the front only once, after all. He didn’t know what the woman wanted from him, so he lapsed into a sullen silence. Eventually she left him, giving him a pat on the hand before she left.

Yes, Mrs. Crawley was kind.

Later, when he saw Lady Sybil in a nurse’s uniform, he _was_ surprised. He had never paid much attention to Lady Sybil — she was well out of his range of interests, both professional and personal. She was a rebel, apparently, for he could not imagine her parents letting her go easily to her chosen task. _She must have had a hell of a time getting them to agree to it_ , thought Thomas, watching her bustle about the crowded sickroom. She held on to duties stubbornly, grimly even, for someone so young and relatively untouched by war.  
(Thus far.)

Tom Branson, the chauffeur, still followed her around a like a dog on a scent. _He never knew his place_ , thought Thomas, with a mixture of envy and disgust. Here again, Branson tried to needle him, but Thomas replied to his insinuations tranquilly. It would take more than an Irish malcontent like Branson to ruffle _his_ feathers. Thomas managed even to give him a bland smile — _what’s it to you how I got the job?_ — before the attention shifted to Nurse Crawley again.

They — Branson and Mrs. Crawley — were trying to persuade Nurse Crawley to put down her mantle for now and become Lady Sybil again, for a dinner party down at Downton.

As for himself, he’d gone to Downton Abbey almost as soon as he had come. It was the same as ever, only he had changed. Only O’Brien had had a kind word to say for him. _That smug — that_ damned _Carson looked like he was on his last legs and good riddance to him —  
_  
“Thomas! Could you give Lieutenant Courtney his pills?” called Mrs. Crawley as she drifted away. “Certainly,” he said to no one in particular. The lieutenant sat in silence as Thomas handed him a pill and a glass of water. He swallowed quickly, and then turned away.

 

_  
**Three.**  
_

“What does she look like, our Nurse Crawley? Is she pretty? She sounds pretty.”

Once he got started, the lieutenant proved to be a talker. Indeed, it was hard for him to stop. Words slipped out from his well-shaped lips like water. He spoke with a posh Oxford accent. Well, he was posh. (If not _terribly_ so — and Thomas thought of the Duke, no doubt now safely ensconced behind a desk somewhere, the prick.)

But most of all, Thomas was struck at how young Courtaney looked, bandaged up like that. In truth, he was a few year younger than Thomas, but now he seemed too fragile, wrapped up in cotton sheets and bandages.

The topic of the conversation, Nurse Crawley, had only left the room moments before, having dispensed with the day’s medications.

Courtaney leaned forward, eager for information.

Thomas found himself reluctant to speak. “She’s pretty enough, if you like that sort of thing.”

Courtaney laughed, and Thomas was momentarily startled. He had not heard Courtaney laugh before. It was a nice sort of laugh, more joyful than one would expect from the normally dour junior officer.

“What, if you like pretty women? Don’t you like pretty women, Thomas?”

Thomas chose his next words with care. “I don’t think I am allowed to notice how pretty Lady Sybil Crawley is. I’m certain Lord Grantham would not appreciate it.”

Courtaney shrugged. “Nor am I, as it happens. But come, you were describing her to me. Is she fair or dark?”  
“Dark. All of the Crawley sisters are dark. Except for the middle one, Edith, but no one much looks at her.”  
“Go on, about Sybil, I mean. Not about her sister. What color are Sybil’s eyes?”

Thomas felt a moment of total panic. How should he know what color Sybil Crawley’s eyes were? It wasn’t like he made it a habit of looking at them! Courtaney noticed the break in the conversation, and cocked his head in puzzlement. It’s a simple question, he seemed to say.

Thomas chewed his lip, thinking.

He said, truthfully, “I’m not in the habit of looking deeply into the eyes of the daughters of my former employers, but I believe her eyes are grey.”

Courtaney nodded, like Thomas had confirmed something he had suspected.

“Any other distinguishing features? Her nose? Her lips?”  
“Her nose is quite normal, I think. Her lips are very... full.”  
“Oh? Care to elaborate?”  
“No.”

Courtaney pursed his own lips in disapproval. “Anything else?”

“She has a prominent forehead which quite spoils her looks. Luckily, the nurse’s kit she’s got on now hides it quite well.”  
“That is not gallant of you to notice a flaw in a lady’s looks, Thomas.”  
“I’m not a gentleman, I need not be gallant. And any case you did ask, sir, and I was only trying to be honest.”

Courtaney leaned in close to say in a low voice, “I appreciate your honesty. It feels like it is only for me.”  
“It is only for you. Sir.”

 

_  
**  
Four.**  
_

Later, he ran into Lady Sybil in the hall. She handed him a letter, and asked him to deliver it if he could. He wanted to say that she did not have the right to order him about anymore.

As Major Clarkson’s assistant, he outranked her, in fact.

But he noticed the name on the letter and quickly took it off her hands, afraid that she would change her mind. The letter was addressed to Lt. Edward Courtaney, care of the Downton Cottage Hospital. It was written in an decidedly feminine hand.

_It’s sure to be from a lover - a fiancée - or a sister? No, he never mentioned sisters. An affectionate cousin, perhaps. An aunt. Or a mother. No, he said his mother had died when he was very young. It’s from a lover, it’s certainly from a lover._ Thomas was tempted to go burn it. But — Lady Sybil was speaking.

“Is he getting better, do you think?”  
Thomas wanted very much to pretend he did not know who she was talking about. Instead, he said in a neutral tone that Major Clarkson certainly thought so.

Lady Sybil waited for a moment, and shifted the linens she had been holding.

“And what do you think, Thomas?”

He wanted to say, _Corporal Barrow, if you please. I’m not yours to call Thomas, not now, your ladyship._

But instead he considered, examining her as he did so. She was aware of his scrutiny and shied away from it. _The silly girl, she thinks I’m in love with her. I suppose that’s not a terribly bad assumption to make, half the hospital’s in love with her — including Courtaney, perhaps.  
_  
He crumpled the letter a little at the thought.

“Thomas?”

He took a breath.

“I think... I think he has good days and bad days. He is very unhappy, sometimes. And sometimes I think his unhappiness is all he sees.”

“I shouldn’t wonder...”

“You help him, I think.”

“Oh!” Lady Sybil’s eyebrows rose in perfect surprise. “Thank you, Thomas. That’s... that’s very generous of you.”

He could only bow and then shuffle away.

*  
The letter was from a lover — that is to say, a fiancée, with the decidedly unlovely name of Agatha. Courtaney listened in mute despair as Thomas read it aloud. It was not a cruel letter, so to speak, but rather horribly prosaic. _Things could not be as they once were, and Jack has your best interests at heart..._

Courtaney said bitterly, “That’s what he’s always wanted.”

“Jack? Who is Jack?”

“My brother. My younger brother.”

“He’s always wanted... Your fiancée?”

“My life, everything I’ve ever had — ”

Courtaney’s wrecked eyes widened, his face reddened. He was rapidly losing his temper, and Thomas was the only one close enough to attack. Thomas steadied himself in preparation, whatever happened, he instructed himself, he could not lose his own temper.

Courtaney bared his teeth slightly — his breath escaped him in an angry hiss. “Why am I telling you this anyway? What can you do?”

Patiently, Thomas said, “Perhaps talking about it will make it easier to accept.”

“Accept it! All I can do is accept things. Accept that I will never see again. Accept that I will never be able hunt again, or fish, or shoot — or do anything I’ve always wanted to do. Accept that my worthless brother will take over my life. Why should I accept all of that? I’m sick of it. I don’t — Oh, leave me alone, Thomas. Haven’t you got any more damned patients to take care of? Will they have to die to get some attention? _Go away!_ ”

Thomas had already retreated.

*  
Later, Courtaney composedly apologized, his fingers tapping impatiently against his unscarred knuckles. Thomas gave him a quick, searching look, but Courtaney’s face was carefully blank.

“I am usually the one with a bad temper,” Thomas said wryly, before accepting.

Courtaney bowed his head in mock-shame. “I must beg you to make me your exception.”

Thomas did not want to say, though it is true: _you already are._

_**  
Five.  
**_  
It was a perfect spring day, not a cloud in the sky and no showers expected. It was a quiet at the hospital — as settled as things could be there — and Thomas had been given the day off. It was such a unexpected windfall, Thomas stood in the middle of yard, undecided as to where to go.

He could go a visit O’Brien again — her letters had grown infrequent of late, and what’s more, they were filled now more about that man Lang rather than anything about Thomas. He felt an uncomfortable sensation of being replaced. He frowned. As if his relationship with O’Brien (half-motherly, half- disdainful friendship) wasn’t complicated enough...

He heard the familar tap-tap of a cane hitting the gravel. He felt someone take his arm and pull him along.

“Keep going,” said a voice in his ear. He turned to see Courtaney grinning at him. Behind them, Nurse Crawley looked up, a small frown on her face. She didn’t try to stop them as they left the hospital grounds.

“Have you kidnapped me?” said Thomas, trying not to sound very thrilled at the prospect. Courtaney frowned, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“Certainly not! I am merely taking a tour of the country, taking advantage of the fresh air and good companionship — ” Here he patted Thomas’ hand in a friendly fashion.

They wandered for a time along the roads, taking time to pause — Courtaney still got easily winded, and from his ragged breathing to quiet down.

“I’m sorry... The gas, it burned my lungs, you know —”

“No, sit. We have time enough, I think.”

Thomas felt around for a flask, and handed it to Courtaney. He swallowed it eagerly, and Thomas said, alarmed, “Not so fast!” Courtaney leaned against a road post, a smile on his face.

“I feel quite flush. I've walked farther today than I've done in ages. Is there a place were we could cool down?”

Thomas said he knew of such a place. “Then take me there,” said Courtaney grandly, and accepted Thomas' hand. Thomas pulled him up, without much effort.  
 ** _  
Six.  
_**  
It was mid-afternoon when they finally found the spot, a soft grassy knoll, by a small lake. The shade lay thickly on ground, and there was already a chill in the air. Thomas guided Courtaney down to the ground. He sank into grass, and sighed.

Thomas watched him, the shadows of the leaves playing on his pale face, patches of skin still rubbed red. His features were still very finely wrought, like one of those Greek marbles, only slightly weathered and only slightly wrecked. His stone-colored eyes stared at nothing, and with a wrench Thomas wondered what color Courtaney’s eyes had been, before. Pale, they must have been, but had they been blue or grey?

Courtaney’s mouth was moving, and eventually Thomas strained to hear. As if from a long ways away, he heard Courtaney say, “Thomas, what did you mean when you said you were different?”  
  
“What? I didn’t say that.”

“You did.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what made you different?”

“Do we have to talk about this now?”

“Shall we talk about swimming? The water’s warm enough, don’t you think?”

“Sir, I’m not sure it is...”

“Nonsense. Help me with these buttons.”

Courtaney tugged at his shirt helplessly, having already shrugged off his jacket by himself.

Thomas was very careful, unbuttoning Courtaney’s shirt, and lifting it over his head. It was a practise of a lifetime that he did not toss it aside. Instead he folded it carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles and lining the sleeves together just so. He paused to consider the smooth, white column of Courtaney’s neck. Almost without thinking, he leaned in and kissed the space where the lieutenant’s neck and left shoulder met. There was breath, a frozen moment and Thomas reeled away. What had he done? How could he — and with a patient? _Damn._

Courtaney’s shirt lay crumpled in his hands.

Courtaney’s voice shook a little as he said, “I suppose... I suppose my question has been answered.”

Excuses swirling around Thomas’ brain. _Forgive me sir, it was an accident, I slipped, I’m sorry, we’ll go home right away. If you wish to talk to the major, I will understand but please sir, this will never happen again, please, please, please understand...  
_  
He managed to strangle out, “Lieutenant Courtaney.... Sir, I’m — sorry, sir.” Courtaney’s shirt, balled and almost unrecognizable as a garment meant for a civilized man, fell uselessly on to his lap.

Courtaney looked bewildered, and Thomas felt sick to his stomach.

“Thomas...”

Thomas’ own eyes were closed, ready for what, even he did not know.

“Thomas, if we are — well, if we are to do this sort of things, I think you should probably call me Edward. It’s ridiculous to kiss me and then call me sir.”

“You...” Thomas did not have the words to express his astonishment. As it was, he felt like had been granted a reprieve that was as unexpected as it was wholly welcome.

In a low voice, Thomas asked what him what he would like for him to do.

Edward considered this, and then laid back down on the soft grass. “What you will."

The amount of trust he had in Thomas was as touching as it was absurd.

*  
Courtaney — no, _Edward,_ muttered something against Thomas’ chest and went still. The sound of their combined breathing sounded too loud for Thomas to bear, but bear he did and moved closer to Edward, as close as he dared. He could still, if he wanted to, taste Edward on his tongue, bitter and slick... Thomas sighed and began to move away. Edward’s hand shot out. “Don’t go,” he murmured.

“Where would I go?” said Thomas hopelessly.

If Edward Courtaney had ever visited Downton Abbey at any time before the war, he would have met Thomas Barrow first. Thomas would have greeted him, and taken his luggage, and showed him to his room. Courtaney’s eyes would have slid away from Thomas easily enough, he would have forgotten him as soon as he ceased to serve — after all who has time to notice a servant, even one — _especially_ one who —

Thomas gasped as Edward’s mouth, that terrible, that _wonderful_ mouth pressed against him, and he was pulled away from his dark imaginings. _What rubbish_ , he thought.

*  
Edward’s hands tugged at Thomas’ ever-present glove.  
“Take it off,” he said.  
“I’d rather not,” said Thomas. “It upsets people.”  
Edward made a pained face. “Do you think your hand would upset me?”

A beat.

“No,” Thomas said. “I don’t think it would.”

*  
“I’m always in this dark.”  
“Hm?”  
“I said...”  
“I know what you said. Of course you are...”  
“Because I’m blind, yes, I’ve noticed. But it’s a bit more than that —”  
“Mm.”  
“Stop that. And stop looking skeptical, I can feel you looking skeptical. I’m trying to make a point here.”  
“By all means sir, make your point.”

A sigh.

“Well, now I don’t know what I was saying.”  
“Something about the dark.”

“Oh yes. I’m in this dark — which is a metaphorical dark, mind you, alone and empty, on a sunless shore and all that...”  
“Yes?”  
“Well, and somehow now, it seems like you are... Well, you are in this darkness with me.”  
“I shall be in the darkness with you, at any moment. The sun’s about to go down and if you’re missing at bedtime, the matron will have my head.”

“Yes. Thank you for that, Thomas.”

*  
They came back to the hospital in the late evening, as the lavender-colored sky deepened into indigo. Edward’s right arm was snaked across Thomas’ shoulders, and Thomas’ left arm circled Edward’s waist. They clambered into the washroom just before Nurse Crawley hurried in. Her eyes widened in shock to see the state of them.

“You better get cleaned up,” she said.

And so they did.

 

**  
_  
Seven._  
**

Thomas hurtled out of the Major’s office. The old anger was back, burning a pit in his stomach. It was not for him, but for Edward — that is to say Lieutenant Courtaney — who deserved better than this. He did not deserve to be so summarily cast off. It wasn’t right, not any of it.

Clarkson, the old fraud, hadn’t understood a word Thomas had said. Or he hadn’t cared, which was worse. In any case, he had failed.

Thomas shook his head, and set out to find Edward.

“Thomas! Over here!” Mrs. Crawley hurried towards him, looking more harried than usual. He was swept away, embroiled in one difficult case after another. It was hours before he was free again, well after lights-out. He was stopped from entering dormitory by a nurse, an older woman of the decided matronly aspect.

“I want to say goodbye to Lieutenant Courtaney. He’s leaving in the morning,” said Thomas as meekly as he could. She shook her her head, and said he could do that tomorrow.

He hesitated. He wanted to protest, wanted to push in anyway. But he was already in Clarkson’s bad books. Another incident could get him fired, and then where would he be? _The same place he had been for a year_ , said a dark voice in his head. _Discarded, just like that._

“Tomorrow,” he echoed.

**  
_  
Eight._  
**

It was not as if he had never seen death close up before.

He had seen more than enough corpses, enough for several lifetimes. He remembered how sometimes — not always, and not with all medics, But … Sometimes, they would keep behind such things that the dead had no earthly use for, such as rings and watches. If they didn’t take those things, someone else down the line would. It would be an absurd to think that the trinkets would make their way back to the grieving family. You would have to know nothing about human nature to think that. No one spoke of it, not lightly anyway, but there it was. In a strange way, it was like having a keepsake for a man you had never truly met.

_You couldn’t really claim to know someone who was already dying, the first time you met. He was dying even before I met him, I couldn’t help him, for all he said and for all that I thought. I couldn’t help him at all._

Lieutenant Edward Courtaney had nothing to steal, had nothing for Thomas to keep. In that he was poorer than even the meanest private in France. He had been convinced that he had nothing, and so he ended with nothing. Not even his life.

Death had given him no welcome serenity.

His face was still, in Thomas’ mind, beautiful and arresting as ever. But now it was frozen in pain. His mouth ( _such a mouth! and a torment to think about_ ) was slack, and his eyes would always be unseeing.

Thomas had been given the responsibility of preparing the lieutenant’s body. The nurses could not be expected to do it, nor could Mrs. Crawley. Major Clarkson, whose job this might have been, was far too busy to devote his precious time to one dead soldier when there were so many live ones about.

So it was up to Thomas, and how he hated it.

He had already given in to emotion earlier today, when he had first heard the news. The nurse who had come to fetch him for his present task had observed his pale face, his red-rimmed eyes. She had given him a knowing look, as if she could have known anything at all.

Still, Courtaney's body was now arranged in some semblance of peace.

If no one looked at his face.

If no one knew what he had been before.

If only Courtaney had just held on! If he had just — Perhaps Thomas was wrong — and he felt that he had got it wrong, somewhere and somehow. But Courtaney was not there to tell him otherwise, to explain himself in that hopelessly polite way of his.  
 _  
He’s lost to me._

Thomas did not wonder how Courtaney got a hold of the razor.

(He did not what to know.)

There was a knock at the door, and a nurse — not Nurse Crawley — interrupted his musings. She informed him that someone has come to pick up the body. “Who is it?” he asked, without much interest.

“Lieutenant Jack Courtaney,” said the nurse.  
 _  
Of course.  
_  
He said dully, “Send him in.”

Lieutenant Jack Courtaney looked much like his late brother. But he was a poor carbon copy of Edward — as if someone had not pressed hard enough against the paper to make a strong impression. But, Thomas saw, with a sure stab of pain, that his eyes were clear and bright.

They were more grey than blue.


End file.
